<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355510" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Emigrants: Book II</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Scene, on an Eminence on one of those Downs, which afford to the South a view of the Sea; to the North of the Weald of Sussex. Time, an Afternoon in April, 1793.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Long wintry months are past; the Moon that now<br>Lights her pale crescent even at noon, has made<br>Four times her revolution; since with step,<br>Mournful and slow, along the wave-worn cliff,<br>Pensive I took my solitary way,<br>Lost in despondence, while contemplating<br>Not my own wayward destiny alone,<br>(Hard as it is, and difficult to bear!)<br>But in beholding the unhappy lot<br>Of the lorn Exiles; who, amid the storms<br>Of wild disastrous Anarchy, are thrown,<br>Like shipwreck'd sufferers, on England's coast,<br>To see, perhaps, no more their native land,<br>Where Desolation riots: They, like me,<br>From fairer hopes and happier prospects driven,<br>Shrink from the future, and regret the past.<br>But on this Upland scene, while April comes,<br>With fragrant airs, to fan my throbbing breast,<br>Fain would I snatch an interval from Care,<br>That weighs my wearied spirit down to earth;<br>Courting, once more, the influence of Hope<br>(For &quot;Hope&quot; still waits upon the flowery prime)<br>As here I mark Spring's humid hand unfold<br>The early leaves that fear capricious winds,<br>While, even on shelter'd banks, the timid flowers<br>Give, half reluctantly, their warmer hues<br>To mingle with the primroses' pale stars.<br>No shade the leafless copses yet afford,<br>Nor hide the mossy labours of the Thrush,<br>That, startled, darts across the narrow path;<br>But quickly re-assur'd, resumes his talk,<br>Or adds his louder notes to those that rise<br>From yonder tufted brake; where the white buds<br>Of the first thorn are mingled with the leaves<br>Of that which blossoms on the brow of May.<br>Ah! 'twill not be:---- So many years have pass'd,<br>Since, on my native hills, I learn'd to gaze<br>On these delightful landscapes; and those years <br>Have taught me so much sorrow, that my soul<br>Feels not the joy reviving Nature brings;<br>But, in dark retrospect, dejected dwells<br>On human follies, and on human woes.----<br>What is the promise of the infant year,<br>The lively verdure, or the bursting blooms,<br>To those, who shrink from horrors such as War<br>Spreads o'er the affrighted world? With swimming eye,<br>Back on the past they throw their mournful looks,<br>And see the Temple, which they fondly hop'd<br>Reason would raise to Liberty, destroy'd<br>By ruffian hands; while, on the ruin'd mass,<br>Flush'd with hot blood, the Fiend of Discord sits<br>In savage triumph; mocking every plea<br>Of policy and justice, as she shews<br>The headless corse of one, whose only crime<br>Was being born a Monarch--Mercy turns,<br>From spectacle so dire, her swol'n eyes;<br>And Liberty, with calm, unruffled brow<br>Magnanimous, as conscious of her strength<br>In Reason's panoply, scorns to distain<br>Her righteous cause with carnage, and resigns<br>To Fraud and Anarchy the infuriate crowd.----<br>What is the promise of the infant year<br>To those, who (while the poor but peaceful hind<br>Pens, unmolested, the encreasing flock<br>Of his rich master in this sea-fenc'd isle)<br>Survey, in neighbouring countries, scenes that make<br>The sick heart shudder; and the Man, who thinks,<br>Blush for his species? There the trumpet's voice<br>Drowns the soft warbling of the woodland choir;<br>And violets, lurking in their turfy beds<br>Beneath the flow'ring thorn, are stain'd with blood.<br>There fall, at once, the spoiler and the spoil'd;<br>While War, wide-ravaging, annihilates<br>The hope of cultivation; gives to Fiends,<br>The meagre, ghastly Fiends of Want and Woe,<br>The blasted land--There, taunting in the van<br>Of vengeance-breathing armies, Insult stalks;<br>And, in the ranks, &quot;1 Famine, and Sword, and Fire,<br>&quot;Crouch for employment.&quot;--Lo! the suffering world,<br>Torn by the fearful conflict, shrinks, amaz'd,<br>From Freedom's name, usurp'd and misapplied,<br>And, cow'ring to the purple Tyrant's rod,<br>Deems that the lesser ill--Deluded Men!<br>Ere ye prophane her ever-glorious name,<br>Or catalogue the thousands that have bled<br>Resisting her; or those, who greatly died<br>Martyrs to Liberty --revert awhile<br>To the black scroll, that tells of regal crimes<br>Committed to destroy her; rather count<br>The hecatombs of victims, who have fallen<br>Beneath a single despot; or who gave<br>Their wasted lives for some disputed claim<br>Between anointed robbers: 2 Monsters both!<br>&quot;3 Oh! Polish'd perturbation--golden care!&quot;<br>So strangely coveted by feeble Man<br>To lift him o'er his fellows;--Toy, for which<br>Such showers of blood have drench'd th' affrighted earth--<br>Unfortunate his lot, whose luckless head<br>Thy jewel'd circlet, lin'd with thorns, has bound;<br>And who, by custom's laws, obtains from thee<br>Hereditary right to rule, uncheck'd,<br>Submissive myriads: for untemper'd power,<br>Like steel ill form'd, injures the hand<br>It promis'd to protect--Unhappy France!<br>If e'er thy lilies, trampled now in dust,<br>And blood-bespotted, shall again revive<br>In silver splendour, may the wreath be wov'n<br>By voluntary hands; and Freemen, such<br>As England's self might boast, unite to place<br>The guarded diadem on his fair brow,<br>Where Loyalty may join with Liberty<br>To fix it firmly.--In the rugged school<br>Of stern Adversity so early train'd,<br>His future life, perchance, may emulate<br>That of the brave Bernois 4 , so justly call'd<br>The darling of his people; who rever'd<br>The Warrior less, than they ador'd the Man!<br>But ne'er may Party Rage, perverse and blind,<br>And base Venality, prevail to raise<br>To public trust, a wretch, whose private vice<br>Makes even the wildest profligate recoil;<br>And who, with hireling ruffians leagu'd, has burst<br>The laws of Nature and Humanity!<br>Wading, beneath the Patriot's specious mask,<br>And in Equality's illusive name,<br>To empire thro' a stream of kindred blood--<br>Innocent prisoner!--most unhappy heir<br>Of fatal greatness, who art suffering now<br>For all the crimes and follies of thy race;<br>Better for thee, if o'er thy baby brow<br>The regal mischief never had been held:<br>Then, in an humble sphere, perhaps content,<br>Thou hadst been free and joyous on the heights<br>Of Pyrennean mountains, shagg'd with woods<br>Of chesnut, pine, and oak: as on these hills<br>Is yonder little thoughtless shepherd lad,<br>Who, on the slope abrupt of downy turf<br>Reclin'd in playful indolence, sends off<br>The chalky ball, quick bounding far below;<br>While, half forgetful of his simple task,<br>Hardly his length'ning shadow, or the bells'<br>Slow tinkling of his flock, that supping tend<br>To the brown fallows in the vale beneath,<br>Where nightly it is folded, from his sport<br>Recal the happy idler.--While I gaze<br>On his gay vacant countenance, my thoughts<br>Compare with his obscure, laborious lot,<br>Thine, most unfortunate, imperial Boy!<br>Who round thy sullen prison daily hear'st<br>The savage howl of Murder, as it seeks<br>Thy unoffending life: while sad within<br>Thy wretched Mother, petrified with grief,<br>Views thee with stony eyes, and cannot weep!-- <br>Ah! much I mourn thy sorrows, hapless Queen!<br>And deem thy expiation made to Heaven<br>For every fault, to which Prosperity<br>Betray'd thee, when it plac'd thee on a throne <br>Where boundless power was thine, and thou wert rais'd<br>High (as it seem'd) above the envious reach<br>Of destiny! Whate'er thy errors were,<br>Be they no more remember'd; tho' the rage<br>Of Party swell'd them to such crimes, as bade<br>Compassion stifle every sigh that rose<br>For thy disastrous lot--More than enough<br>Thou hast endur'd; and every English heart,<br>Ev'n those, that highest beat in Freedom's cause,<br>Disclaim as base, and of that cause unworthy,<br>The Vengeance, or the Fear, that makes thee still<br>A miserable prisoner!--Ah! who knows,<br>From sad experience, more than I, to feel<br>For thy desponding spirit, as it sinks<br>Beneath procrastinated fears for those<br>More dear to thee than life! But eminence<br>Of misery is thine, as once of joy;<br>And, as we view the strange vicissitude,<br>We ask anew, where happiness is found?------<br>Alas! in rural life, where youthful dreams<br>See the Arcadia that Romance describes,<br>Not even Content resides!--In yon low hut<br>Of clay and thatch, where rises the grey smoke<br>Of smold'ring turf, cut from the adjoining moor,<br>The labourer, its inhabitant, who toils<br>From the first dawn of twilight, till the Sun<br>Sinks in the rosy waters of the West,<br>Finds that with poverty it cannot dwell; <br>For bread, and scanty bread, is all he earns<br>For him and for his household--Should Disease,<br>Born of chill wintry rains, arrest his arm,<br>Then, thro' his patch'd and straw-stuff'd casement, peeps<br>The squalid figure of extremest Want;<br>And from the Parish the reluctant dole,<br>Dealt by th' unfeeling farmer, hardly saves<br>The ling'ring spark of life from cold extinction:<br>Then the bright Sun of Spring, that smiling bids<br>All other animals rejoice, beholds,<br>Crept from his pallet, the emaciate wretch<br>Attempt, with feeble effort, to resume<br>Some heavy task, above his wasted strength,<br>Turning his wistful looks (how much in vain!)<br>To the deserted mansion, where no more<br>The owner (gone to gayer scenes) resides,<br>Who made even luxury, Virtue; while he gave<br>The scatter'd crumbs to honest Poverty.--<br>But, tho' the landscape be too oft deform'd<br>By figures such as these, yet Peace is here,<br>And o'er our vallies, cloath'd with springing corn,<br>No hostile hoof shall trample, nor fierce flames<br>Wither the wood's young verdure, ere it form<br>Gradual the laughing May's luxuriant shade;<br>For, by the rude sea guarded, we are safe,<br>And feel not evils such as with deep sighs<br>The Emigrants deplore, as, they recal<br>The Summer past, when Nature seem'd to lose<br>Her course in wild distemperature, and aid,<br>With seasons all revers'd, destructive War.<br>Shuddering, I view the pictures they have drawn<br>Of desolated countries, where the ground,<br>Stripp'd of its unripe produce, was thick strewn<br>With various Death--the war-horse falling there<br>By famine, and his rider by the sword.<br>The moping clouds sail'd heavy charg'd with rain,<br>And bursting o'er the mountains misty brow,<br>Deluged, as with an inland sea, the vales 5 ;<br>Where, thro' the sullen evening's lurid gloom, <br>Rising, like columns of volcanic fire,<br>The flames of burning villages illum'd<br>The waste of water; and the wind, that howl'd<br>Along its troubled surface, brought the groans<br>Of plunder'd peasants, and the frantic shrieks<br>Of mothers for their children; while the brave,<br>To pity still alive, listen'd aghast<br>To these dire echoes, hopeless to prevent<br>The evils they beheld, or check the rage,<br>Which ever, as the people of one land<br>Meet in contention, fires the human heart<br>With savage thirst of kindred blood, and makes<br>Man lose his nature; rendering him more fierce<br>Than the gaunt monsters of the howling waste.<br>Oft have I heard the melancholy tale,<br>Which, all their native gaiety forgot,<br>These Exiles tell--How Hope impell'd them on,<br>Reckless of tempest, hunger, or the sword,<br>Till order'd to retreat, they knew not why,<br>From all their flattering prospects, they became<br>The prey of dark suspicion and regret 6 :<br>Then, in despondence, sunk the unnerv'd arm<br>Of gallant Loyalty--At every turn<br>Shame and disgrace appear'd, and seem'd to mock<br>Their scatter'd squadrons; which the warlike youth,<br>Unable to endure, often implor'd,<br>As the last act of friendship, from the hand<br>Of some brave comrade, to receive the blow<br>That freed the indignant spirit from its pain. <br>To a wild mountain, whose bare summit hides<br>Its broken eminence in clouds; whose steeps<br>Are dark with woods; where the receding rocks<br>Are worn by torrents of dissolving snow,<br>A wretched Woman, pale and breathless, flies!<br>And, gazing round her, listens to the sound<br>Of hostile footsteps---- No! it dies away:<br>Nor noise remains, but of the cataract,<br>Or surly breeze of night, that mutters low<br>Among the thickets, where she trembling seeks<br>A temporary shelter--clasping close<br>To her hard-heaving heart, her sleeping child,<br>All she could rescue of the innocent groupe<br>That yesterday surrounded her--Escap'd<br>Almost by miracle! Fear, frantic Fear,<br>Wing'd her weak feet: yet, half repentant now<br>Her headlong haste, she wishes she had staid<br>To die with those affrighted Fancy paints<br>The lawless soldier's victims--Hark! again<br>The driving tempest bears the cry of Death,<br>And, with deep sudden thunder, the dread sound<br>Of cannon vibrates on the tremulous earth;<br>While, bursting in the air, the murderous bomb<br>Glares o'er her mansion. Where the splinters fall,<br>Like scatter'd comets, its destructive path<br>Is mark'd by wreaths of flame!--Then, overwhelm'd<br>Beneath accumulated horror, sinks<br>The desolate mourner; yet, in Death itself,<br>True to maternal tenderness, she tries<br>To save the unconscious infant from the storm<br>In which she perishes; and to protect<br>This last dear object of her ruin'd hopes<br>From prowling monsters, that from other hills,<br>More inaccessible, and wilder wastes,<br>Lur'd by the scent of slaughter, follow fierce<br>Contending hosts, and to polluted fields<br>Add dire increase of horrors--But alas!<br>The Mother and the Infant perish both!--<br>The feudal Chief, whose Gothic battlements<br>Frown on the plain beneath, returning home<br>From distant lands, alone and in disguise,<br>Gains at the fall of night his Castle walls,<br>But, at the vacant gate, no Porter sits<br>To wait his Lord's admittance!--In the courts<br>All is drear silence!--Guessing but too well<br>The fatal truth, he shudders as he goes<br>Thro' the mute hall; where, by the blunted light<br>That the dim moon thro' painted casements lends,<br>He sees that devastation has been there:<br>Then, while each hideous image to his mind<br>Rises terrific, o'er a bleeding corse<br>Stumbling he falls; another interrupts<br>His staggering feet--all, all who us'd to rush<br>With joy to meet him--all his family<br>Lie murder'd in his way!--And the day dawns<br>On a wild raving Maniac, whom a fate<br>So sudden and calamitous has robb'd<br>Of reason; and who round his vacant walls<br>Screams unregarded, and reproaches Heaven!--<br>Such are thy dreadful trophies, savage War!<br>And evils such as these, or yet more dire,<br>Which the pain'd mind recoils from, all are thine--<br>The purple Pestilence, that to the grave<br>Sends whom the sword has spar'd, is thine; and thine<br>The Widow's anguish and the Orphan's tears!--<br>Woes such as these does Man inflict on Man;<br>And by the closet murderers, whom we style<br>Wise Politicians; are the schemes prepar'd,<br>Which, to keep Europe's wavering balance even,<br>Depopulate her kingdoms, and consign<br>To tears and anguish half a bleeding world!--<br>Oh! could the time return, when thoughts like these<br>Spoil'd not that gay delight, which vernal Suns,<br>Illuminating hills, and woods, and fields,<br>Gave to my infant spirits--Memory come!<br>And from distracting cares, that now deprive<br>Such scenes of all their beauty, kindly bear<br>My fancy to those hours of simple joy,<br>When, on the banks of Arun, which I see<br>Make its irriguous course thro' yonder meads,<br>I play'd; unconscious then of future ill! <br>There (where, from hollows fring'd with yellow broom,<br>The birch with silver rind, and fairy leaf,<br>Aslant the low stream trembles) I have stood,<br>And meditated how to venture best<br>Into the shallow current, to procure<br>The willow herb of glowing purple spikes,<br>Or flags, whose sword-like leaves conceal'd the tide,<br>Startling the timid reed-bird from her nest,<br>As with aquatic flowers I wove the wreath,<br>Such as, collected by the shepherd girls,<br>Deck in the villages the turfy shrine,<br>And mark the arrival of propitious May.--<br>How little dream'd I then the time would come,<br>When the bright Sun of that delicious month<br>Should, from disturb'd and artificial sleep,<br>Awaken me to never-ending toil,<br>To terror and to tears!--Attempting still,<br>With feeble hands and cold desponding heart,<br>To save my children from the o'erwhelming wrongs,<br>That have for ten long years been heap'd on me!--<br>The fearful spectres of chicane and fraud<br>Have, Proteus like, still chang'd their hideous forms<br>(As the Law lent its plausible disguise),<br>Pursuing my faint steps; and I have seen<br>Friendship's sweet bonds (which were so early form'd,)<br>And once I fondly thought of amaranth<br>Inwove with silver seven times tried) give way,<br>And fail; as these green fan-like leaves of fern<br>Will wither at the touch of Autumn's frost.<br>Yet there are those , whose patient pity still<br>Hears my long murmurs; who, unwearied, try<br>With lenient hands to bind up every wound<br>My wearied spirit feels, and bid me go<br>&quot;Right onward 7 &quot;--a calm votary of the Nymph,<br>Who, from her adamantine rock, points out<br>To conscious rectitude the rugged path,<br>That leads at length to Peace!--Ah! yes, my friends<br>Peace will at last be mine; for in the Grave<br>Is Peace--and pass a few short years, perchance<br>A few short months, and all the various pain<br>I now endure shall be forgotten there,<br>And no memorial shall remain of me,<br>Save in your bosoms; while even your regret<br>Shall lose its poignancy, as ye reflect<br>What complicated woes that grave conceals!<br>But, if the little praise, that may await<br>The Mother's efforts, should provoke the spleen<br>Of Priest or Levite; and they then arraign<br>The dust that cannot hear them; be it yours<br>To vindicate my humble fame; to say,<br>That, not in selfish sufferings absorb'd,<br>&quot;I gave to misery all I had, my tears 8 .&quot;<br>And if, where regulated sanctity<br>Pours her long orisons to Heaven, my voice<br>Was seldom heard, that yet my prayer was made<br>To him who hears even silence; not in domes<br>Of human architecture, fill'd with crowds,<br>But on these hills, where boundless, yet distinct,<br>Even as a map, beneath are spread the fields<br>His bounty cloaths; divided here by woods,<br>And there by commons rude, or winding brooks,<br>While I might breathe the air perfum'd with flowers,<br>Or the fresh odours of the mountain turf;<br>And gaze on clouds above me, as they sail'd<br>Majestic: or remark the reddening north,<br>When bickering arrows of electric fire<br>Flash on the evening sky--I made my prayer<br>In unison with murmuring waves that now<br>Swell with dark tempests, now are mild and blue,<br>As the bright arch above; for all to me<br>Declare omniscient goodness; nor need I<br>Declamatory essays to incite<br>My wonder or my praise, when every leaf<br>That Spring unfolds, and every simple bud,<br>More forcibly impresses on my heart<br>His power and wisdom--Ah! while I adore<br>That goodness, which design'd to all that lives<br>Some taste of happiness, my soul is pain'd<br>By the variety of woes that Man<br>For Man creates--his blessings often turn'd<br>To plagues and curses: Saint-like Piety,<br>Misled by Superstition, has destroy'd<br>More than Ambition; and the sacred flame<br>Of Liberty becomes a raging fire,<br>When Licence and Confusion bid it blaze.<br>From thy high throne, above yon radiant stars,<br>O Power Omnipotent! with mercy view<br>This suffering globe, and cause thy creatures cease,<br>With savage fangs, to tear her bleeding breast:<br>Refrain that rage for power, that bids a Man,<br>Himself a worm, desire unbounded rule<br>O'er beings like himself: Teach the hard hearts<br>Of rulers, that the poorest hind, who dies<br>For their unrighteous quarrels, in thy sight<br>Is equal to the imperious Lord, that leads<br>His disciplin'd destroyers to the field.----<br>May lovely Freedom, in her genuine charms,<br>Aided by stern but equal Justice, drive<br>From the ensanguin'd earth the hell-born fiends<br>Of Pride, Oppression, Avarice, and Revenge,<br>That ruin what thy mercy made so fair!<br>Then shall these ill-starr'd wanderers, whose sad fate<br>These desultory lines lament, regain<br>Their native country; private vengeance then<br>To public virtue yield; and the fierce feuds,<br>That long have torn their desolated land,<br>May (even as storms, that agitate the air,<br>Drive noxious vapours from the blighted earth)<br>Serve, all tremendous as they are, to fix<br>The reign of Reason, Liberty, and Peace!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charlotte+Smith">Charlotte Smith</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355510" data-title="The Emigrants: Book II de Charlotte Smith" data-description="Scene, on an Eminence on one of those Downs, which afford to the South a view of the Sea; to the North of the Weald of Sussex. Time, an Afternoon in April, 1793. Long wintry months are past; the Moon that now Lights her pale crescent even at noo..."></div> </div> </div>

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